The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "Our watchers on the Galatan hill," the big Frank replied, "counted sixty ships of various sizes. Maybe six, seven thousand men in all—packed on the decks like herring. They must have left their mounts, wagons and supplies behind."

  "Good. We can use all those things." Alexandros grinned, teeth white in a face dark with sweat, soot and spattered, dried blood. The Macedonian felt light, invigorated. He still held a spatha-style cavalry sword bare in his hand. The fighting on the docks had ended only moments before and the prospect of a few Persians hiding out among the abandoned buildings was very real. "The Persians are fine horsemen—they will not have slaughtered them. Send the Eastern troops to quarter the city, block by block, calling for their fellows to come out, and find me those horses."

  The Frank nodded, long pigtails bouncing on armored shoulders. Like Alexandros, Chlothar was stained and battered, with long creases bent in his armored breastplate and links missing from the mail covering his arms and legs. His face was grim and set. "I wonder, comes, if anyone lives in this death house..."

  "They do." Alexandros licked his lips—he felt thirst, which was rare in his current state—and looked up at the hills rising over the harbor. The sight of so many buildings, so closely packed together, filled him with amazement. This city rivaled Rome for the sheer mass of humanity once dwelling behind the gaping windows and blackened doors. "Even the windrows of dead we saw in the outer city cannot account for so many souls. More will be hiding, fearful, in cellars and hidden rooms or in the cisterns." He paused, remembering his father's men dragging prisoners in golden cloaks from secret chambers beneath the floors of a mighty palace. Persepolis, he thought, the scene as bright in his memory as if it had occurred yesterday. They thought to avoid my justice for their regicide. "They will have hidden from the Persians, thinking they would meet a horrific fate, but they will come out when they hear familiar voices calling."

  The harbor district was battered, but the buildings still had roofs and walls and the courtyards were free of corpses and scattered bones. The outer wards of the city, between the great walls and the lesser, crumbling, ill-repaired old wall of Constantinople, were a different matter. The sights greeting his army once they entered the city proper had shaken even Alexandros, insulated as he was by the quirk of fate setting him beyond mortality. Entire districts along the Northern Road had been leveled, not a stone standing on stone, and the wizened corpses of the dead filled every space along the streets and byways. At one point, they had crossed a square where some colossal fire had raged out of control, shattering the paving stones, burning the lime from the buildings, leaving nothing but huge drifts of whitened bone and countless skulls.

  Alexandros had never seen such devastation. Did the gods struggle here, on earth? Surely only the bolts of Zeus Thundershielded could yield such destruction!

  "Where is the Khazar lord Dahvos?" The Macedonian turned back to Chlothar, wrenching his thoughts away from such a distressing conclusion. Unbidden, his eyes turned again to the east, squinting into the bright glare from the water at the distant shore of Chalcedon. "We must discuss our next campaign."

  "Aye, comes." The Frank stepped away, calling for his household knights.

  Alexandros climbed onto a low stone wall at the edge of the quay. Bucephalas bumped his leg with a heavy head, nose snuffling at the Macedonian's hand. "You'll eat soon, my friend," Alexandros laughed, rubbing the stallion's white forehead blaze. "Oats and apples, or a bit of carrot."

  The eastern shoreline was obscured—the clouds over the strait were spilling dark wavering veils of rain—but he was sure he could pick out the glint of light reflecting from metal, from armor. Asia, he wondered, a sick hot feeling in his chest. Again, my enemies are on the further shore. He looked down and saw his right hand was shaking. Alexandros pressed the palm to his chest and found his heart racing like a hare.

  "Not long," he promised himself, unable to repress a grin, "not long before I march on Persia again."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  In the Bruchion, Alexandria, Roman Egypt

  "Is this how things usually turn out for you?" Thyatis hitched both thumbs into her girdle. She and Nicholas stood in a small, low-ceilinged office in the vast, confusing sprawl of the Bruchion—the consolidated governor's office, public park, royal palace and military headquarters of Rome in lower Egypt. The ancient complex filled nearly a quarter of the original city. This particular room was littered with scraps of papyrus and parchment, ratty-looking wooden desks and the faint, pervasive odor of scented balm. A shutter on the single high narrow window was jammed shut with old scroll cases and a scattering of lemon peels in one corner showed an impressive array of mold. Fruiting bodies sprouted from white fuzz, dark purple tips rising in tiny crenellated towers. The condition of the room indicated no one had actually worked in the chamber for weeks, perhaps months.

  Nicholas' eyelid twitched at Thyatis' question and his scowl deepened. "Last year, when I was here, the tribune in charge of the Egyptian Office worked here." Angrily, he kicked a pile of discolored parchment aside with his foot.

  "Just as well," Thyatis said, turning slowly in a circle. The humidity in the room was stifling. She squinted out into the hallway. There was another cubicle opposite—indeed, there were dozens of equally small, cramped offices packed into the warren of the old Ptolemaic palace—and Thyatis realized she could see the air in the passage as a faint haze. "We really don't have time to chase down the local authorities."

  Nicholas grimaced, automatically smoothing the sleek points of his mustache. "You don't believe these rumors running wild in the streets? This is Alexandria! Someone sees a two-headed snake in their garden and they think the gods have returned! The Persians will never reach the city—Caesar Aurelian has six Legions with him! You have no idea how massive the fortifications at the eastern edge of the delta are."

  "Hmm." Thyatis turned over some of the papers on the desk. The tan-colored parchment was covered with blackish-gray spots the size of her thumbnail. "Every official we've seen in this maze is either petrified with fear or smug as a cat thinking he'll move up when the Persians arrive. The soldiers in the port were the same way—the Romans grim and all-too-efficient, the Egyptians taking it easy, thinking they'll all have a body slave each and hands filled with the King of King's gold."

  "They're fools." Nicholas shrugged. His confidence in the Empire was unshaken. "The authorities will remember who was loyal and who was not, afterward." He grinned at the prospect. "Some of the Eastern network must still be intact—I'll root around and see if I can find anyone to help us."

  "A good idea," Thyatis said, stepping into the corridor. Two clerks hurried past, avoiding her eyes. When they were out of earshot, she said: "Come. It's dangerous to remain here. The Persians will have their own spies busy in the city. I'll get the others from the ship and find someplace quiet to stay on the edge of town. Meet me by sunset at the Nile Canal gate."

  "Huh!" Nicholas perked up. Thyatis hid a smile—her loyal ally had grown increasingly impatient as the day progressed. He had a message pouch held inside his tunic with a leather cord. She'd considered lifting the packet, but thought—upon reflection—she preferred to see who merited such swift delivery. Who do you need to report to, my friend? One of Gaius Julius' agents, doubtless, waiting with equal impatience for your delivery.

  "A good idea," Nicholas continued, looking relieved. "I've an idea of where to look..."

  Tossing off a Legion salute, though Thyatis doubted the man truly regarded her as his commanding officer, Nicholas strode off. Taking her time, the Roman woman followed. She was hot and sweaty under the properly demure stola, hooded cloak and undertunic of a Roman matron, but haste was never rewarded at times like these. The invisibility of the mundane and expected was her friend, a moving blind in the chaotic urban forest.

  At the end of the hallway, she found one of the little offices occupied by an elderly Egyptian in priestly robes. He was carefully copying a papyrus scroll onto fresh parc
hment. A faint scratching sound followed the smooth, effortless motion of his quill. The squared, angular shapes of modern Egyptian appeared, glistening and dark on the cream-colored page.

  "Holy father? May I have a moment?"

  "Yes?" he said, looking up in irritation. "What do you want?"

  "I am looking for my cousin," she said, making a small bow. "A Latin officer—he worked down the hall, wore too much hyacinth perfume, liked lemons?" She offered an engaging, commiserating smile. "Mother never liked the way he smelled."

  The old priest snorted in laughter. "Your cousin is gone—I do not know where. He and the other Romans like him packed their bags a day or two ago and went off in wagons towards the port." A faint gleam of satisfaction surfaced in the man's dark eyes, then subsided again. "I believe," the priest continued, seeming to ponder, "they felt continuing to work here might become dangerous..."

  "Holy father, do you think the Persians will conquer Egypt?" Thyatis let her voice quaver a little when she said Persians.

  "Many things could happen, child. But I am sorry—I do not know where Curtius and his friends went." He frowned and Thyatis felt a flash of irritation as she realized his thoughts were veering towards a young woman abandoned by her male relations! How scandalous!

  "Thank you, father," she said, stepping out of the room before he started trying to help her. A bustling crowd of nervous men and women in the hallway swallowed her up. Thyatis let the traffic carry her through a wooded park filled with riotous wildflowers and into another, more public section of the complex. The tang of fear in the air tickled her nose and she listened to passing conversation with interest—an undercurrent of dread was in every voice.

  I smell defeat, Thyatis realized, one eyebrow creeping up. No one will speak the words aloud, but disaster looms. Frowning now herself, she began to walk quickly, weaving through the clusters and knots of worried people in the passages. A noose draws tight around our time, grains spilling from a hidden clock. Thyatis took the steps out of the main building, down into a crowded, loud street two and three at a time. She felt a swift rush of elation, the air suddenly clear and sharp, the sun bright, the roar and mutter of the crowd exciting rather than depressing. I'd forgotten how good the hunt feels!

  —|—

  Standing in the shade of a winged granite ram twenty feet high, Nicholas watched Thyatis bound down the steps in front of the Bruchion and into the crowded avenue. For a moment she was still visible, cowled head bobbing above the crowd, then she turned a corner and was gone. He cleared his throat, and tried to shake away his anger with a twist of his shoulders.

  "You're a fool," he muttered to himself, nervous fingers brushing the hilt jutting over his shoulder. Brunhilde was slung Legion-style on a cloth strap over his shoulder. Some calm returned with the touch, but he was still strangely on edge. The message pouch was safe and sound in his belt. "It's odd to have a woman centurion... but not that odd. Vladimir is odder. He's a panther in a man's shape..."

  The muttered statement failed to relieve his discomfort. He respected her skill—she was deft with a blade, strong, quick-witted, clear-headed, sometimes she was even funny!—but a nagging sense of disquiet refused to leave his thoughts. I just don't trust her, he thought angrily. But we're on the same side, we both serve the Empire... does her skill offend me? Why shouldn't a trained woman approach my skill—and where was she trained? The laconic centurion was a mystery. A tall, firm-breasted, long-legged, redheaded mystery.

  "Bah!" he snapped, embarrassed by his thoughts. "Enough of this. There's work to be done, my lad."

  Without looking around, he strode back into the palace, following the red cloak of a passing Legion officer towards the governor's offices. A few moments later he entered a cavernous room filled with hunched, busy clerks, furiously scribbling copies of orders, levies, manifests. Nicholas felt a great calm flow over him, smelling and hearing the machine of the Empire in motion. Standing quietly beside the doorway, Nicholas let his gaze wander across the bent heads. He has to be somewhere... there!

  Near the further door, one clerk had a tall stack of leather pouches beside his desk. Each pouch was dark with wear and closed with a winged silver clasp. Two Legion officers were talking quietly to the man. The Greek nodded briskly to the Romans, then accepted a set of parchments. Nicholas touched the packet in his belt again, then pushed away from the wall and walked quickly up to the dispatch master.

  "You've charge of the cursus publicus?" Nicholas stopped beside the slave's desk, left arm on the wooden surface, cloak bunched to hide his belt.

  "Yes," the Greek said, attention focused on the newly delivered letters. "Just put your messages there in the pile."

  Nicholas reached down and seized an exposed ear. With irresistible gentleness, he turned the man to face him. "I have a privy message," he said softly, "from the Emperor, for his brother."

  The clerk stared at him in amazement, rubbing his ear. "Fool! I'm the governor's secretary. I'll have you thrown into the street!"

  "Will you?" Nicholas drew the message pouch out of his belt, turning the packet to show the dark Tyrian purple seal of the Augustus and God Galen, pressed with the Emperor's own signet, and bound in crimson twine. The Greek's expression congealed into white-lipped fear.

  Nicholas' ill humor vanished; replaced by smug satisfaction to see the Greek quail at his words, lean face paling, nimble hands beginning to tremble. "I am the voice of the Emperor, carrying his word, from his own hand. Are you listening now?"

  "Yes," whispered the clerk. His eyes focused on Nicholas with gratifying intensity.

  "Good." The Latin straightened up, letting the packet drop casually. "I'm on another Imperial errand, my friend, so I leave this matter to you. I've heard the Caesar Aurelian is busy in the eastern delta. You see this reaches him with all speed. I've come straightaway from Rome, and neither the prince nor his brother will be pleased if you delay their correspondence."

  "Of course not," the Greek managed to say. He picked up the letter with only the tips of his fingers. "A courier is leaving in a few hours. He'll take it."

  Nicholas leaned down abruptly, bared teeth white in a sun-browned face. The clerk drew back, the corners of his eyes tightening in fear. "I'll come back later, to make sure the letter sped to Caesar on swift, sure wings. Mercury could do no better, I'm sure, than you will."

  The man nodded eagerly, sliding the letter under a small stack of similar packets. "Yes, my lord. The prince will have it tomorrow morning."

  Tomorrow? That's too soon. It's two or three days to Pelusium... Nicholas frowned, right hand knuckled against his side. "Where is Aurelian now? Is the prince on his way back to the city?"

  The Greek stiffened again, but this time his eyes flitted around the room, particularly to the door leading deeper into the governor's domain. "Things aren't going well," the clerk whispered. "The Legions are trying to hold a line at Bousiris."

  "On the Nile? The Persians are on the Nile?" Nicholas swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Half of Egypt fallen since we left Rome?

  He was outside the palace, in the street, pushing his way through porters bent under wooden crates and leather-bound trunks before he was aware of moving. There was a man he had to see. Nicholas started to run, though muttering crowds pressed him on every side. The sun, already swollen orange from its descent into the smoke-haze over the city, was only a hand above the buildings to the west.

  —|—

  "Seven by seven," Betia chanted softly to herself, "makes forty and nine."

  The little Gaul drifted along a side street in a quiet, residential neighborhood. A raw wool chlamys hid most of her petite figure and she carried a heavy wicker basket. Behind her, at the junction of the street and a small plaza, the corner of an old, crumbling temple was just visible. Seven streets and alleys fed into the plaza and Betia had taken her time while circling the crossroads. From the decrepit temple of Artemis, with its half-seen sanctuary and dusty stone goddess draped in bull testicles, she had chosen
the seventh opening. The girl thought the placement of the goddess' temple particularly apt, as the smoke-stained, decaying facade of a Mithraic sanctuary squatted across the plaza. The seventh passage was little more than an alley, but Betia had passed into the fetid dimness without hesitation.

  Now she counted doorways, measuring her paces against the Huntress' tread. At the ninth doorway she smiled—her count measured forty steps—and paused, setting the basket down and stretching in apparent weariness. Before her, a worn, curved set of steps led down into deep-set alcove. The dark stone of the door arch did not match the buildings on either side.

  Bending down to lift up her basket, Betia looked up and down the passage, saw no one, and slipped down the stairs. The soiled gray wood of the door thudded hollowly under her small fist, but she was careful to knock only thirteen times.

  —|—

  The sun was wallowing down into the west, filling the sky with violent orange threads of cloud, by the time Nicholas managed to reach the Nile Canal gate. Thyatis was sitting, hands on her knees, upon a massive sandstone foot attached to a section of round, weatherworn leg. The rest of Pharaoh's body was gone, shorn off at the ankles by some ancient catastrophe. A matching statue across the canal was in better shape, retaining both legs and part of a pleated kilt. A crowd of local children in shapeless white-and-brown tunics sat on the ground, watching her feet intently.

  "Hello, Nicholas." Thyatis did not look up.

  The Latin slowed to a halt, sweating. The perfect stillness of the crowd of boys drew him up short and he closed his mouth, swallowing a tired-sounding "hello yourself."

  A wooden box lay between Thyatis' legs, top knocked askew. Something gray-green rose from the opening, swaying from side to side, a glistening black tongue flicking in the air. Nicholas stiffened as a scaled hood unfolded, revealing a chilling pattern of gray-and-white spots. The cobra's body was the thickness of his forearm. Tasting the air, the snake's flat head drifted from side to side.